He shook his head. What was she doing with a cruel, hard man like Graelen?
Someone moaned and called for a bucket. Tobazim turned to see Athlyn, pale and sweaty. Graelen’s devotee held the bucket for him, offered him a drink afterwards and rinsed the bucket. Kind and good-hearted.
Tobazim caught up with Ceyne, who drew him into the bathing chamber so they could speak in privacy.
Tobazim turned to face him. ‘What can you tell me about the assassin, Graelen?’
The saw-bones hesitated.
‘Is he our enemy?’
‘Rather, you should ask, do you have a common enemy?’
‘I think I should ask if he is an honourable man.’
Ceyne hesitated. ‘Before Kyredeon came to power, Sigorian was all-father. This brotherhood has not had an all-father of substance for over forty years. We have all had to do dishonourable things to survive. The night Graelen gave his vows, he was only sixteen and determined to win stature. That night my apprentice was unjustly accused of spying for Chariode’s brotherhood. I couldn’t save him. If I’d tried, I would have died, too. I still have nightmares.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry won’t save us from Kyredeon’s paranoia.’
‘PEPPERMINT TEA?’
‘Thank you, Dia.’ Graelen accepted it. As the day progressed, almost everyone had become seasick. Valendia was one of the lucky ones who seemed immune. She’d been in the sick bay helping Ceyne with the worst cases.
‘Doesn’t cleaning up after others make you feel sick?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘I nursed my mother when she was ailing. It took her nearly two years to die. Looking after those who are ill makes me grateful to be alive.’
He shook his head. ‘No wonder you are wise beyond your years.’
She laughed and went inside. He remained on deck. He much preferred to be outside with the wind in his face. It seemed not many of the others shared his preference; the decks were mostly empty.
He sipped the hot peppermint tea. His stomach was feeling a little better and he was considering trying to catch some sleep when Tobazim came out of the passage to the cabins. Graelen was surprised to see him alone, but his supporters were probably all laid low with the heaves.
Tobazim paused halfway out the door as their eyes met.
Graelen could have bundled Tobazim overboard right then – it was the perfect opportunity – but he didn’t.
He turned back to the rail and looked out over the side of the ship.
Tobazim joined him. ‘They tell me you are Kyredeon’s assassin.’
Graelen schooled his face to reveal nothing. Meanwhile his free hand closed on the hilt of his long-knife.
‘They tell me I should have you killed, before you kill me. Ardonyx says you could be useful. Ceyne says –’
‘Ceyne?’ Graelen was surprised. Was the saw-bones playing them off each other? He must not let Kyredeon’s paranoia infect him. ‘The saw-bones advises you?’
‘I would be a fool not to listen to him. He has advised me since the night we arrived in the palace.’
‘And you trust him? The saw-bones has been on Kyredeon’s inner circle since the all-father seized power.’
‘Ceyne is a good man in a difficult position.’
That was what Graelen had always believed. He released his knife hilt. ‘What does the saw-bones say?’
‘He says that you are also a good man in a difficult position. Is he right?’
‘I don’t…’ Graelen broke off as several adepts came out onto the deck. He tensed, watching them.
When he turned back, Tobazim was gone. But they had seen them together. If the all-father found out, Kyredeon’s paranoia would lead him to assume the worst.
There was only one way to prove his loyalty – kill Tobazim.
IMOSHEN SERVED MINT tea to help settle seasick stomachs. It was evening of their first day at sea, and everyone suffered. She was lucky; having grown up fishing in small rowboats, she had no trouble with the pitching of the deck.
She lit the lamp, turned it down low and hung it from the hook, then surveyed the cabin full of moaning women and small children. It was going to be a long night.
Towards dawn there was a reprieve and nearly everyone had fallen asleep. Her devotee, Frayvia, was just as sick as the rest, but she told Imoshen to rest.
‘I think I’ll get some fresh air.’ She slung her cloak around her shoulders and went out on deck. It was a clear, bitingly cold night, with a faint hint of grey in the east.
Imoshen’s heart filled with joy. Exile meant change, and she welcomed it.
Eventually the chill became too much and she returned to the cabin to find all was quiet. Frayvia had taken the chance to dress for the day and was kneeling next to her chest. When she noticed Imoshen, she rolled something up and went to put it away.
‘What’s that?’ Imoshen whispered.
‘A gift from Sorne,’ she said, after a moment’s hesitation. Imoshen’s gift surged; Frayvia’s reluctance to reveal the object sprang from the depth of her feelings for Sorne. ‘It belonged to his mother. It’s the only thing he has of hers.’
‘Then it is a very rich gift, indeed,’ Imoshen said. ‘Can I see?’
Frayvia placed the neck torc in her hands.
‘I don’t recognise the design.’
‘He believes it came from across the eastern mountains.’
‘That explains the stone. I’ve never seen anything like it. Such a vivid blue.’
Frayvia flushed. ‘Sorne used to wear the torc when King Charald asked him for a vision. It would glow when the predators from the higher plane came through.’
‘Sorne…’ Imoshen hesitated. As a Malaunje, Sorne had no innate power. She believed, had he been born T’En, he would have been a seer, capable of calling up visions. Being Malaunje, Sorne had siphoned off power from the empyrean plane to trigger his visions, but to do this… ‘He risked death each time he had a vision. He’s lucky the empyrean predators he summoned were satisfied with the offerings he made. The gift residue in T’En relics would not have been enough for the really dangerous beasts. They could have –’
‘I know.’ Frayvia shuddered. ‘He’s promised not to seek any more visions.’
‘I’m glad.’ Imoshen hugged Frayvia and returned the torc. ‘I think you should wear this with pride.’
Frayvia smiled and fastened the torc around her neck.
Imoshen was glad Sorne no longer risked his life to gain visions, but with the T’Enatuath sailing into exile, her people could have used the guidance of a seer. There had not been one born for hundreds of years.
They did have a scryer, who was able to search for possible future paths, but their scryer had been injured the day All-mother Reoden’s daughter was murdered. The scryer could not forgive herself for failing to foresee the attack, and her gift had been blocked ever since.
One of the children moaned in their sleep, woke up and vomited. This disturbed the others and set them off. Imoshen hoped, for all their sakes, they would find their sea-legs soon.
Chapter Six
JARAILE HAD NEVER seen the Wyrd city. She’d heard it described as a cesspit, and also as one of the wonders of the world. Approaching it that afternoon, after three days’ muddy ride from port, it certainly lived up to its reputation for beauty. It stood on an island in the lake. A ribbon of white causeway stretched out to the city. The walls and buildings were a brilliant white. There were gardens on the roofs, mostly barren now, except for the occasional pencil pine.
‘The closest end, the low end, is where the brotherhood palaces are. They were given to the barons as a reward for their loyalty. Apparently they drew lots when the Wyrds left,’ Eskarnor told her. He adjusted her buttocks across his lap and she could feel him pressed into her flesh. She knew what he would do once they were alone in the palace. ‘Beyond the next wall are the shops, theatres, eateries and a park. Behind the last wall, on the peak of the island, are the sisterhood pala
ces. Charald had declared them his, but by tomorrow morning, I’ll be claiming them.’
‘The Chalcedonian barons won’t swear loyalty to you.’
‘I think you underestimate how much they hate your husband. There is not one baron amongst us who hasn’t felt the force of his irrational rage. Fear is all very well for keeping men in line, but when a man does not know if his king is going to turn on him in a rage, then fear becomes a goad to action.’
Jaraile suspected he was right. The king had always had a temper and bullied his way through life, but these last few years, she’d seen even Charald’s trusted advisors recoil in horror.
They rode down the causeway towards the gates.
‘Your men-at-arms were sent –’
‘– to my estate, which lies far to the north. It’s huge, but that’s because it’s so barren. Frankly, it’s an insult, considering my service to King Charald.’ Then he laughed. ‘Sorne had men watching the port for signs of my warriors gathering, but he didn’t bother to watch the army besieging the Wyrd city. And he wouldn’t have thought anything of it, if he had, because I was entitled to a contingent of men to claim my palace. The rest have slipped back and been secreted throughout the tents of my loyal barons.’
Jaraile’s mind raced. If Eskarnor had been allowed to retain a contingent of men here, then Nitzane must have men here, too. If she could just work out which palace was his and escape, she could claim sanctuary with them.
By the time they rode through the gate, one of the baron’s men was waiting to escort Eskarnor to his palace.
‘Captain Pataxo,’ Eskarnor greeted him with a laugh. The baron was so different from Charald – ruthless, yes, but also ready to laugh, especially now that his plans had finally come to fruition. ‘Where’s my palace?’
‘It’s the last one on the north side of the city.’
‘Good. I want all the barons and their honour guards invited to tonight’s feast,’ Eskarnor said.
Pataxo’s gaze skipped over Jaraile, but it was clear he knew who she was. ‘It will be done. We’re lucky we didn’t get the ruined palace. Nitzane’s man drew the short straw.’
‘Which palace is that?’ Jaraile said.
Eskarnor pinched her. ‘Don’t even think it.’
She looked up at him, startled.
‘I’m no fool, Raila.’ Eskarnor grinned. ‘Besides, if you took refuge with Nitzane’s men, I would have to kill the lot of them. You don’t want to be responsible for their deaths, do you?’
She sank down. He had outsmarted Sorne, who was the smartest man she’d ever met. Perhaps there was no hope. Perhaps she was destined to be the prize of cruel bullies.
No. She had her son to think of. She must not give up hope. But she could let Eskarnor think she had. She slumped in his arms, as if dejected.
That evening Jaraile dressed in looted finery. Eskarnor decked her in silks and brocades. Above her, on the rooftop garden, she could hear the feast getting underway, with much singing and drinking.
It was dark by the time Eskarnor escorted her onto the rooftop garden. From the roar of laughter and voices, the wine had been flowing freely. Lanterns strung from poles gave the event a festive air. Long tables had been carried up and a set for the feast. Musicans played a Dacian air on instruments Jaraile was unfamiliar with. She could hardly hear the music for the rowdy singing.
But as Eskarnor led her between the tables to the high table, the singers faltered and the musicians lowered their instruments. She saw her cousin, Baron Kerminzto, go very still and wished she could get a message to him. She tried to tell him to run with her eyes, but he just looked grim. Did he think she had willingly abandoned King Charald and her son?
Eskarnor led her around behind the table, then climbed onto a chair and drew her up beside him.
‘You will have all heard the rumour concerning King Charald’s mental state,’ Eskarnor said. ‘The king’s mind is going. Why, not so long ago, he held a conversation with Queen Sorna, who has been dead these thirty years.’
Jaraile glanced to Eskarnor, horrified. How had he known? He hadn’t been there that day. Someone must have betrayed Charald.
‘Yes, the secret is out, my queen,’ Eskarnor said, taking her hand as if consoling her. Jaraile had just confirmed his claim.
He tucked her arm through his. ‘For over forty years, Charald has bullied his own kingdom and all those around the Secluded Sea. You know why he hates the Wyrds?’
‘Because the one-eyed halfblood is his son!’ Captain Pataxo yelled.
‘Worse.’ Eskarnor was enjoying himself. ‘Because the rumour about his twin is true. Charald was born with a halfblood twin. Talk of tainted blood!’ Eskarnor shook his head. ‘Charald should never have sat upon the throne. Tonight, I come here with Queen Jaraile to offer an alternative to a cruel, irrational old bully. Unite behind us and we will free Chalcedonia from King Charald the Tyrant. No more handing over your best men to go off and fight his campaigns against subject kingdoms that have revolted. Tonight, choose freedom and a new start for Chalcedonia. All barons who swear loyalty to me will keep their lands and titles.’
‘What of Nitzane?’ Pataxo called.
‘That lap-dog? He’s no warrior. United, we are more than a match for him.’
‘What of Prince Cedon?’
‘The Wyrd wharf was attacked by slum-dwellers. The Wyrds cut the boy’s throat to…’
Jaraile’s head buzzed. This was what she’d feared. The lanterns spun and she toppled. Eskarnor caught her, sweeping her off her feet.
‘Poor thing. The shock’s too much for her in her condition. Charge your glasses. The queen carries my son, heir to the throne.’
Jaraile stiffened in his arms.
Eskarnor laughed and kissed her, holding her tightly.
‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice how you pick at your food and force it down?’ he whispered. Then he raised his voice. ‘I vow before you all here tonight, King Charald will be dead by summer so I can marry the queen and make my son legitimate. Step forward now and give your oaths of loyalty.’
In the cage of his arms, Jaraile could only watch as the rooftop crowd erupted. She saw her cousin try to fight his way to the stairs. She saw Eskarnor’s men drive their enemies against the rails and over so that they fell to their deaths, four storeys below.
The struggle surged towards them at the high table.
‘Wait here.’ Eskarnor sat her in the chair, placed one boot on the table and jumped over it to join the fighting.
To her disgust, she saw at least two of the Chalcedonian barons turn on the others, uniting against the very men they’d sworn to support.
But all she could think of was her sweet little Cedon, dead. She’d failed him. He’d died alone and frightened. Had he called for her right at the end?
Could you die of grief?
How could she go on after this? Why go on?
‘Traitor!’ Baron Dekaitz charged the high table, bloody sword raised to strike her.
She threw herself backwards. The chair tipped. She slammed on the tiles, rolled onto her hands and knees, and tried to scramble away, but he caught her from behind.
Dekaitz grabbed her by her hair, pulled her head up and brought his sword to her throat.
She screamed, infuriated by the injustice of it.
Then screamed again as Dekaitz was hauled aside, jerking her head and tearing her hair out by the roots. She crawled away, blood trickling down her forehead into her eyes. Stunned, she pressed up against a raised garden bed and turned in time to see Eskarnor run Dekaitz through.
The man dropped to his knees. Eskarnor grabbed him by his hair and sliced his head clean off. Lifting the severed head by the hair, he turned to display it to the others. ‘This is what happens to those who threaten what’s mine!’
And he deposited the head on the table. Meanwhile, the screams of the dying and the curses of the fighting men gradually faded.
Satisfied, Eskarnor returned, lifted Jaraile and too
k his seat at the high table with her in his lap. He inspected her head. ‘A few patches of torn scalp, that’s all. You’ll be fine.’
Through her tears and the blood she saw the two Chalcedonian turncoat barons, Ikor and Unaki, take the heads of Barons Dittor and Rantzo. They strode over and deposited them on the table with Dekaitz’s head. These three unfortunate barons had been Nitzane’s firm supporters.
Ikor and Unaki dropped to their knees to give their oath of loyalty to Eskarnor, buying their place in his ranks with the heads of men they’d sworn to serve alongside.
She would not trust them. Ever.
That only left her cousin, Kerminzto. She hoped he’d escaped, hoped Eskarnor would…
‘Where is Kerminzto’s body? Bring me his head,’ Eskarnor ordered. As his men searched the dead, Eskarnor gestured to the wine. ‘Pour me a glass.’
Amazingly, the bottle had not broken during the fighting. She righted a goblet and poured wine for him.
‘And one for yourself. I’m not like these Chalcedonian men, who treat their women like slaves,’ Eskarnor said. ‘You’ll drink alongside me and you’ll rule alongside me.’ He bared his teeth in a feral grin. ‘As long as you prove loyal.’
Terror made Jaraile’s hand shake.
He steadied the wine bottle and tilted her goblet to her lips. ‘Drink up. You need something for your nerves.’
She gulped a mouthful, not sure if she could keep it down. It was Dacian, stronger than she was used to. It made her cough and her eyes water.
He laughed, drained his goblet and called to the servants. ‘Serve up the meal.’
Meanwhile the heads of three barons sat on the table in front of her. She tried not to look at them.
‘No sign of Baron Kerminzto,’ Captain Pataxo reported.
Jaraile’s heart soured, but she kept her eyes lowered.
‘Double the guard on the causeway gate,’ Eskarnor said. ‘I want his head by dawn tomorrow.’
The meal arrived: rare roast beef, oozing blood.
Jaraile took one look, lurched to the side and threw up.
Eskarnor rubbed her back, then gestured to the table. ‘Clear these heads. We are not barbarians. Fix them to the spikes above the causeway gate.’
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